


The Adventure of the Two Holmeses

by EbonyKnight, RomanyWalker



Series: Greg Lestrade And The Adventure Of The Alternative Lifestyle [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Getting Together, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Polyamory, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 02:37:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10548622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RomanyWalker/pseuds/RomanyWalker
Summary: Greg Lestrade had never been able to say 'no' to either of the Holmes boys, so what chance did he have when they joined forces?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Probably a good job, actually, because I'm not wholly convinced that the BBC would screen my current musings. 
> 
> Really not sure where this came from, but the idea would not leave me alone.
> 
> RomanyWalker is a fabulous, wonderful person and a fantastic beta. Many thanks to her for being a sounding board and co-conspirator in this, as well as making this thing make sense.
> 
> This story is the first of the series, but A Study in Deception comes before it chronologically. You do _not_ need to have read that to understand this.
> 
> Feedback is given a loving home.

Greg braced his hands on the front door as soon as it was closed and allowed his head to fall forward with a dull ‘thunk’. It did nothing to stop his racing thoughts, all variants of ‘fucking _idiot_ ’ and ‘fuck, no’, and ‘what the _fuck_ were you thinking?’, but did serve to exacerbate his growing headache. Eventually, he pushed away from the door and made his way up the stairs into the flat proper, in search of a liquid remedy. The kitchen, home to a healthy supply of alcohol and little else, was littered with takeaway tubs and half-full mugs, but sweet relief was found in the cupboard next to the fridge. Not caring what he drank as long as it was potent, Greg grabbed the closest bottle and a cleanish glass from the draining board. 

Two large measures of Glenfiddich later, Greg lowered his glass and wiped his mouth with the back of a trembling hand. “Fuck,” he cursed at the dark, empty room. Quite how he'd got himself into such a situation in the first place he didn't know, but he had even less idea about how he was going to get out of it. “Fuck,” he said again, having decided that the sentiment bore repeating. 

An insistent vibration against his leg drew Greg’s attention, and his mind gratefully latched onto the distraction. With any luck it would be his ex-wife wanting a chat about what a waste of space he was, or his sister calling to tell him she was planning to visit, or even work informing him that he was being transferred to the Outer Hebrides. He worked the phone out his pocket and groaned in despair upon seeing **Sherlock Holmes** on the screen. “Piss off,” he snarled, thrusting the phone back into his pocket and pouring another whiskey. The liquid burned as it went down but was insufficient to distract him from the fact that he'd _had sex with Sherlock Holmes_. Granted, neither of them had been one hundred percent sober, but, having been fending off the younger man’s amorous advances for weeks, he had no clue what had made him cave in.

Foregoing the glass, he picked up the bottle and headed into the living room where he dropped onto the sofa without even turning the light on. Once the Glenfiddich was safely on the coffee table, Greg relaxed into the cushions and dropped his head back to stare blankly at the ceiling, eyes adjusting to the faint light emanating from the street light outside. Of all the stupid things he could have done, falling into bed with Sherlock after a rough case and a skinful of beer was perhaps the most stupid. Not only was the other man fourteen years his junior and very unlikely to want anything other than cases and, apparently, excellent sex, but Greg had already shagged the older Holmes brother. Multiple times over the course of two years, in fact. “Oh, God,” he groaned, slumping in his seat and covering his face with his left hand. “When’re you gonna learn?”

His phone vibrated again, but in a short burst this time. Greg pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the screen with trepidation. 

**Sherlock Holmes** : Fleeing when I’m in the shower will not change the fact that we had sex, you idiot. 

Greg felt his face heat at the memories the text forced to the surface. Sherlock was flexible and passionate and inventive, and even thinking about it was causing a distinct stirring in his trousers. He pressed down on his burgeoning erection with the palm of his right hand and told himself to get a grip. The Holmes brothers had no need for ‘normal relationships’, and he had absolutely no desire for another Holmes-related heartbreak. Granted, Mycroft had been very clear from the off that he had no intention of entering into a committed relationship, and had even said that he had ties to another man, but that hadn't stopped Greg from falling for the bastard. He had long harboured a bit of a crush on Mycroft, which he'd finally properly acknowledged after his final separation from Jo, but nothing had happened until after Sherlock's 'suicide'. Their last time together had been a little shy of a month before Sherlock had made his triumphant return. Mycroft had received an urgent message one lazy Sunday morning and had disappeared from bed in the blink of an eye. He'd made contact three weeks later informing him that their ‘arrangement’ had ‘run its course’ and trusting that Greg would remain available for their monthly dinner. It still smarted months later. 

_Which is why you were **not** taking Sherlock up on his offer, you idiot,_ he chided, reaching for the Glenfiddich and taking a healthy swallow. Sherlock and Mycroft were very different men, but to Greg, who had been privileged to see past their public facades, they were more alike than not. Mycroft blended in better, was more adept at faking normality, and Sherlock had a natural ability to manipulate and charm and sham his way through anything despite making no effort whatsoever to mask his eccentricities, but neither was anything like ‘normal’. They both claimed to be above the need for relationships and companionship, but were at their best when they had someone to show off for. The lengths to which they had gone to protect people they claimed not to care about were remarkable. Greg had made the mistake of pointing this out to Mycroft after finding out why Sherlock had faked his death and had caught what felt like every red light for nearly a week. Another similarity, which he could have done without discovering, was that they were both fucking _brilliant_ in bed, though they were, again, characteristically different in how their brilliance manifested. Mycroft was one for playing the long game, drawing things out until his partner was begging for release; Sherlock, who liked the world to know just how clever he was, had generated a litany of flawlessly-deduced filth about everything he was going to do to reduce his fortunate partner to a quivering, panting mess, and then done it. 

The alcohol had well and truly hit Greg’s system, and, rather than dulling his arousal had ratcheted it up a level. His mind, addled by sex and Glenfiddich, was, apparently, very sick and twisted, for his musings on the brothers’ differences in the bedroom had, somehow, led to vague imaginings of the Holmes brothers having sex _with each other_. “No, no, no,” he mumbled, covering his eyes with a hand in a vain attempt to blank the images out. When it didn't work he took another swig of whiskey, and before long found that trying earnestly not to think about _the thing he was trying not to think about_ made him think about it all the more, until a filthy soundtrack of remembered gasps and moans and demands for more were accompanying flashes of long, pale limbs and hard, wet cocks. Greg pressed a hand against his crotch, trying to force it into submission, but it did nothing to help. “You’re sick, Lestrade, _sick_.”

Pickled as his mind was, it took long minutes for Greg to arrive at the conclusion that the alcohol wasn't helping, but sleep might. “Bed,” he decided and levered himself up from the sofa, somehow managing to place the almost empty bottle of Glenfiddich on the coffee table without incident. The world swam alarmingly and the floor may not have been quite where he had left it, but he held his ground and, eventually, the spinning of the room slowed enough for him to stagger towards his bedroom; unlike the lounge, it did not benefit from being in close proximity to a street light and he nearly went arse over tit on encountering an unexpected shoe, but eventually found the bed. 

He hit the pillow face first, landing in a drunken, dishevelled heap, and knew no more.


	2. Chapter 2

How he managed it would remain one of life’s great mysteries, but by nine thirty the following morning, Greg was walking into the office with a steaming cup of the strongest coffee Costa could provide and a headache the size of Manchester. Though he'd always thought that people who wore sunglasses when there was no sun to be had were twats of the highest order, _he_ was wearing a pair that morning, despite the overcast sky. 

“Jesus,” Donovan breathed in awe, “you look like shit, boss. Must have been a good one!”

Greg grunted and flipped her the bird, ignoring her delighted laughter as he carried on to his office. 

It was blissfully cool and dark enough that he was able to remove his sunglasses without wincing. As he sat down, though, his thigh muscles ached and despite his best efforts he couldn't help remembering just how they had become so sore. “Oh, God,” he groaned, dropping his throbbing head into his hands in despair. Getting pissed as a newt the night before might have dulled his memories somewhat, but they were still there, ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. 

“You all right, sir?” Whittard asked, concerned, and it was a testament to just how shit he felt that Greg had not heard the young DC enter his office. 

“Yeah, just a bug or something,” Greg replied, lifting his head with a pained effort to smile. 

Whittard smirked. “Right-oh. You want me to report the Cross Keys? If they’re serving bad Worthington’s something needs to be done about it.” 

“Did you want something?” Greg growled, giving his best glare, though, judging by Whittard’s unrepentant grin, it wasn't quite up to snuff. 

“Anderson was looking for you earlier. Something about the samples taken from Petrie’s house, I think. He said to ask you to call. Don't know why he couldn’t have just emailed you, but I said I’d pass it on.” 

“Right, thanks,” said Greg, and gave a relieved sigh when the door closed Whittard. He relaxed into his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, groping around for his coffee with the other.

Long moments passed, measuring the time passing by the thumping of his head, but he eventually felt human enough to attempt to get on with the day. Not that thoughts about Sherlock or Mycroft - or, God help him, Sherlock _and_ Mycroft - were ever really far away, but there was enough to be doing that he was able to keep the impending insanity at bay. Well, mostly, but, if he tried hard enough, he could convince himself that the cold, queasy feeling in his gut was the result of beer and whiskey and nothing to do with having shagged Sherlock, or entertaining twisted fantasies about him and his older brother shagging each other. Anderson had, it transpired, emailed him, and the results proved conclusively that they had arrested the right woman. Next was an email from Donovan asking to move her monthly supervision back by a week, which he agreed to. Then it was reading his team’s reports on yesterday’s arrests and the weeks of work that had gone into them. He was half way through a report from Harris when his phone vibrated with a message alert, and a cold feeling of dread settled over him. He couldn't ignore it in case it was the girls' school, or the Pope, or any number of people who didn't have the surname Holmes. With trepidation he pulled his phone out and swiped the screen, revealing a text message that made his hand tremble.

 **Mycroft Holmes:** Good morning, Greg. Sherlock tells me that you succumbed to his charms last night, about which he is quite atrociously pleased with himself. You will doubtlessly be pleased to know that he shares my high opinion of your mouth. 

Greg blinked at the phone in disbelief and his vision tunnelled. Yes, he knew the Holmes brothers were much closer than they let on to most, but sharing experiences of a mutual shag? His face burned at the thought of the pair of them, impeccably dressed, talking about his ability to suck cock over a cup of tea and a chocolate digestive. Despite not having being three sheets to the wind to blame, the thought of them discussing sex was all it took for the incestuous fantasies of the previous night to resurface in a mad tsunami and glorious mental Technicolour, and his blood rushed south so quickly that he felt light-headed. “Fuck, you’re sick,” he moaned despairingly, and laid the phone on his desk face down so that he coudln't see the message. He ran a hand through his hair and tugged firmly; the resultant sting served as a distraction, but he was still very definitely aroused, and, apparently, completely wrong in the head.

Eventually, he got enough control of his depraved mind that he could to turn his attention back to his work, but he was distracted at best. The words on the screen blurred in front of his eyes despite his best effort, so he gave it up as a bad job and fled in the direction of the staffroom for a cup of bad coffee and, hopefully, a biscuit or three. 

“You look a bit less dead than Whittard claimed earlier, Lestrade,” Gregson said from beside the fridge. The knowing smirk belied his conversational tone, and Greg wanted the floor to open up and swallow him; he was over fifty, for fuck’s sake, far too old to be getting himself into these situations. “You left pretty damn quick last night. We couldn’t decide if you’d got lucky or got the shits.”

“Fuck off,” Greg snapped, and heaped a teaspoon of instant coffee into his favourite mug. After a moment’s contemplation of the resultant dishwater, he added another.

Gregson laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good on you. About time you moved on,” he said, leaving the room with his drink in one hand and a stack of biscuits in the other. 

Standing alone in the staffroom with a banging head, the residual dissatisfaction of fading arousal, and a deeply disturbing sense of his own depravity, Greg decided that he must be the most pathetic man in the building, which was really something given that Dimmock was likely licking the boots of a Deputy Commissioner somewhere upstairs. “Come on, Lestrade, get back in the game,” he told himself with a mental shake, and left with his mug of rocket fuel and three Jammie Dodgers. 

Back in his office, Greg summoned up his flagging courage and checked his phone. During his short absence, Sherlock had sent a stream of messages, each one successively less subtle than the last. 

**Sherlock Holmes:** Putting your phone on its face does not make the messages go away, Greg. 

**Sherlock Holmes:** Given that you have realised the futility of resisting, it is foolish to think that we won't have sex again. Lots of it, in fact. 

**Sherlock Holmes:** Your tongue is surprisingly agile and I'm interested in what else you can do with it.

 **Sherlock Holmes:** My brother has just left. He said that you like to be ridden, which is promising because I like to ride.

By the time Greg had compulsively read the messages three times, he was hard enough to hammer nails. He made a strangled noise and turned the phone off for the sake of his sanity. The school and Jo both had his work numbers, and anyone else would have to wait, because he knew that there was no way he would be able to function if messages like those were going to keep pouring in. As, knowing Sherlock, they unquestionably would. Closing his eyes in an attempt to find his composure was futile; Sherlock’s confirmation that they had, indeed, been talking about him in that way had kicked his fantasies back into high gear. “Wrong, wrong, wrong,” he chanted as his erection throbbed in time with his head. 

In what was something of a stroke of luck, Anderson picked that moment to interrupt Greg’s destructive vacillation between self-loathing and arousal. “You got half an hour to talk about these results?” he asked, brandishing a sheaf of papers. 

Trying his damnedest to appear normal, Greg inclined his head and waved Anderson into the room. “Yeah, course. This about the Petrie case?”


	3. Chapter 3

Despite leaving work early in order to beat rush hour, the Tube was still unbearably busy, and Greg found himself wedged between a woman in a smart suit and a young man of very questionable personal hygiene. Though paracetamol and plenty of water had eventually shifted his headache, he was still vaguely queasy, and an unsettled feeling, a mix of guilt, apprehension, and arousal, stubbornly lingered.

After what felt like an age the train finally approached his stop, and he managed to work his way out from between his fellow commuters without stepping on any toes, which, all told, was quite an achievement. The air on the platform was, as always, unbearably musty, and it was a relief to reach the exit and what London liked to call fresh air. One of the things that had attracted Greg to his flat, in spite of its location above a very busy European mini-market, was its proximity to the Underground station, and he'd paid handsomely for the convenience. Having the station so close by was well worth the extra money, especially on days when driving to work was out of the question, though they did not normally come about because he had shagged his consultant and then attempted to drown reality in whiskey. 

Hurrying down the street and around the corner towards home, Greg felt the pull of his small flat more with each step. As he let himself through the front door, however, his senses kicked into high alert on seeing Mycroft’s distinctive umbrella propped up in the corner of the hall. 

“Good afternoon,” came the urbane greeting as Greg reached the top of the stairs, and he suddenly felt hot all over. When they had been having sex on a regular basis, it had not been uncommon for Greg to arrive home to find Mycroft averting war from his living room, or making pithy comments at the Six O’clock news, or clucking over the state of his wardrobe, but it had been months since that had happened. 

He entered the living room warily and dropped his keys on the coffee table. Greg eyed the other man, finding him sitting primly in the armchair, jacket and waistcoat draped across the arm of the sofa, and tie slightly askew, which left him looking positively casual. “I’d apologise for the state of the place, but as you broke in…”

Mycroft's eye roll was _scathing_. “If you will insist on keeping that wretchedly ineffectual lock, I have no sympathy.”

“You know as well as I do that there’s nothing wrong with that lock,” Greg countered, toeing his shoes off. “You alright, then? Not that you’re not always welcome, but it’s been a while since you broke in.”

“Other than a particularly incompetent Secretary of State muddying the international waters and the Russian trade delegation encouraging political subversion, yes.”

“Good. Drink?” Greg asked, heading into the kitchen.

“Please. I’d ask for a whiskey but I suspect that you finished that off last night; Sherlock does rather inspire that kind of escapism at the outset.”

A chill ran down Greg’s spine at Mycroft’s blandly casual words, and he gripped the worktop tightly with both hands. “About that,” he said hesitantly, wincing at the quiver in his voice. “It won’t—”

“—Don’t be ridiculous, Greg. I have no problem with you and Sherlock becoming intimate. I encouraged him to approach you, in fact, and I was rapidly approaching the point of staging an intervention to bring you to your senses. His pining was becoming intolerable.”

Greg heard the toilet flush over the rushing in his ears, but it took more time than it should for him to realise that it meant there was someone else in his flat. “Who else is here?” he demanded, walking back into the lounge on legs that wanted little to do with holding him up. “Oh, God,” he lamented on finding Sherlock lounging behind Mycroft. The younger Holmes was distinctly dishevelled, with his hair mussed and black shirt half hanging out of his slacks and open to the third button. 

“You certainly thought so last night,” Sherlock remarked with a cocky smirk, sauntering towards Greg. “You didn’t reply to any of my messages.”

As Sherlock approached, Greg backed away slightly, eyes flicking compulsively to Mycroft, who, astonishingly, was watching with apparent interest. “Sherlock, what—”

“—Really, I know you’re not _that_ stupid,” Sherlock replied, reaching out with a long finger to flick the second button of Greg’s shirt open. 

“Your brother's right there,” Greg protested weakly, backing up against the wall.

“Well spotted,” Sherlock breathed against Greg’s right ear, his lips brushing the outer shell and causing gooseflesh to erupt down his neck. “Believe me, he won’t mind watching.”

Given that the whole day had been an exercise in mental avoidance, Greg’s mind had had _enough_ and just couldn't grasp what was right in front of his eyes. He pushed Sherlock out to arms’ length, though he did not remove his hands from the other man’s shoulders. “Sherlock, what…I don’t…”

Sherlock huffed but Mycroft rose, tutting, and the movement drew Greg’s attention. “Show some compassion, Sherlock,” he said smoothly, crossing to where they were standing and drawing his brother back. “The poor man had a late night and then had to spend a day nursing his hangover in an office full of imbeciles.” He looked knowingly at Greg and smiled his ‘I hold the fate of the nation in my hands, would you like to watch me juggle?’ smile. “Though it does appear that your night of fornication had at least one of its desired effects.” Raising his right hand, he traced an elegant finger down Greg’s cheek. “I always did enjoy your post-work stubble.”

What happened next would be etched into Greg’s memory until the day he died. The brothers had been anything but subtle, so Mycroft turning Sherlock’s head and moving in for an open-mouthed, decidedly non-familial kiss should hardly have been a surprise. But it was. A loud ringing sound echoed in his ears and his knees went weak, but the wall at his back kept him upright as he watched _Mycroft Holmes kiss Sherlock Holmes. _Sherlock moaned, surrendering to what Greg vaguely recognised as Mycroft’s ‘I’m in charge now’ kiss, and Greg echoed it. “Fuck, oh, fuck,” he gasped, unable to look away from his fantasy come to life. He knew full well that getting off on this was earning him a one way ticket to hell when it was time to meet his maker, but right then he couldn't have cared less if he tried.__

__The brothers eventually parted with a filthy, wet sound and Mycroft pinned Greg with his eyes. “Later. I suspect that there is a lot to discuss before we get to that, however.”_ _

__“Boring,” Sherlock snapped and flounced away, throwing himself onto the sofa in a huff._ _

__“Behave, brother mine,” Mycroft chided. He leant in to kiss Greg’s unresisting lips briefly and smiled wolfishly. “Why don’t you sit down?”_ _

__Greg nodded, brain numb. All day he'd been plagued by images of these two men in various positions, and now that it was right in front of him he had no idea what to think. It was incestuous and he was going to hell and he should probably be arresting them, but he was harder than he had ever been in his life and desperately wanted to see more. “You…you’re…”_ _

__“In an incestuous relationship, obviously,” Sherlock snarked as Greg collapsed onto the sofa beside him. “What about this has been in any way ambiguous?”_ _

__Mycroft sat back down in the armchair, looking for all the world like he was ready to discuss a play he had seen, or relate a mildly amusing anecdote about an underling, or ask after the girls. “My brother is correct, though we do not generally make the fact known, for obvious reasons. We are contravening sections sixty four and sixty five of the Sexual Offences Act two thousand and three, and although the law really is rather pointless where it concerns consenting adult siblings of the same gender, given the extreme improbability of offspring resulting from the liaison, I’d rather avoid the scandal. The Europeans take an infinitely more sensible view of these things, though the German stance on vaginas is, frankly, perplexing.” He leaned back in his seat pensively and crossed his legs. “One could be tempted to direct the attention of the legislature to addressing the matter, even if only for the entertainment value of watching somebody put the revisions before the House, but these things are inevitably time-consuming, and I have no particular desire to draw unnecessary attention to our relationship. For reasons I am confident you will understand.”_ _

__Greg was so focussed on what Mycroft was saying that he didn't register Sherlock moving until he plastered himself to his side. “And there goes Wikipedia again,” he murmured, so close that Greg could feel Sherlock’s breath against his neck. “It’s illegal for me to have sex with my brother, but given the number of other laws we’ve broken between us over the years, I hardly think that this one matters. Less than twenty four hours ago you joined me in housebreaking and larceny for the sake of a case, and Mycroft broke the law not twenty minutes ago by disclosing information protected by the Official Secrets Act.” Greg’s breath hitched when Sherlock’s hand landed on his upper thigh. “All things considered, do you have a problem with us breaking this law, too?”_ _

__He knew that he _should_ have a problem with it. Should have a fucking _big_ problem with it, given that he had enjoyed a long, distinguished career in the police force and wanted to carry on enjoying it for a good few years yet, but he didn't. At all. The Holmes brothers had always been laws unto themselves, and this was no different. He felt disappointment more than anything else because it took both of them off the market, or it should - but then, why would Sherlock have launched his campaign of seduction, and why would Mycroft have encouraged it? And Mycroft had kissed the both of them, not just Sherlock, which made even less sense. Greg shook his head, lifting his gaze from where Sherlock’s hand was creeping further up his thigh to look at Mycroft. The elder Holmes was staring hungrily, and Greg's face heated. “What do you want from me? Why are you telling me? How do you know I’m not going to report you both? Why now? Aren’t you bothered that me and Sherlock—”_ _

__“Are you deliberately being obtuse?” Sherlock demanded, fingers brushing Greg’s erection. Greg nearly bit through his tongue._ _

__“Behave, Sherlock. Greg has a lot to think about, and I doubt that your molestation is helping his cognitive functioning,” Mycroft said, avidly watching said molestation._ _

__“It took me _weeks_ to wear his barriers down; I don’t see why I should keep my hands off him now,” Sherlock replied sulkily, and defiantly left his hand where it was. _ _

__Oddly, it was Sherlock’s sulkiness that broke through Greg’s fugue. “What, exactly, do you want from me?” he repeated, fixing his eyes on the abstract print, which had been a Fathers’ Day gift from his girls, behind Mycroft. “A threesome? Is that it? Because I’m keyed up right now, but I don’t fancy being anyone’s experiment, thanks.”_ _

__“That is not our intention,” Mycroft replied at the same time as Sherlock said, “Hardly an experiment: we’ve talked about this at length and are in total agreement.”_ _

__“Then what?”_ _

__Mycroft looked contemplative for a moment. “I suppose the best descriptor is that we are suggesting a polyamorous relationship. You are attracted to both of us; likewise, we are collectively attracted to you. And one another, clearly. I'm well aware that you became... attached to me, but at the time I could not have done anything that would have been detrimental to my relationship with Sherlock, had you been amenable to and ready for such an arrangement. He consented to our encounters in his absence, of course, but he does become so terribly jealous when left out of the fun.”_ _

__“What the windbag is trying to say is that this invitation isn’t only about sex,” Sherlock said, playing with Greg’s right nipple through his shirt. “You are conventional, sometimes frustratingly so, but you know when the rules are redundant. You want a committed relationship, and you can have one, but it would mean ignoring a few of society’s more tedious rules.”_ _

__“Can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs,” Greg murmured, though in his head it was his mother’s voice saying it. The thought of his mother knowing what he was about to get involved in forced a slightly hysterical laugh from him, and within seconds he'd completely lost it. Greg laughed until his abdomen hurt and he was gasping for breath, but it felt dizzyingly good after the strain of the last twenty four hours._ _

__“Did we break him?” Sherlock asked, and Greg straightened up to find the other man peering worriedly at him._ _

__“How do you want this to work?” he asked, reining his hysteria in, though, despite his best effort, his lips were still twitching. It was odd, Greg mused as Mycroft leant forward in his chair steepling his fingers beneath his chin, that having spent the day in a state of heightened anxiety for merely fantasising about the brothers going at it, having been presented with visual and verbal evidence of it and invited to join in, his mind was suddenly calm._ _

__“Independently, neither of us is regular in our habits, which is something that you need. A degree of, ah, normality and stability, that is,” Mycroft said, pale eyes intent. “Between us, though, Sherlock and I will make one good… ‘partner’, I believe is the term du jour, and will be able to give you what you need.”_ _

__“So what?” Greg asked, slightly distracted by Sherlock’s skilful hand, which was slowly progressing back up his thigh. “We’re all in a relationship with each other?”_ _

__“Yes, exactly. That,” Sherlock’s confirmation was a little more waspish than Greg really felt the situation warranted, but it was emphatic. “The clue is in the word Mycroft used. Polyamorous.” Those clever fingers shaped themselves to apply just-enough-not-quite-enough pressure and Greg struggled not to lose his focus on the conversation entirely. “It’s a technical term. Denotes commitment. We’re in a committed relationship and want to include you in it: it’s not a one-off invitation.”_ _

__“You can be reassured that we are both fully committed to making this work,” Mycroft said placidly. His eyes glinted, then and his mouth curved into a familiar smirk. “Darling Sherlock has even gone so far as to research how normal people move forward in new relationships.”_ _

__“Piss off, brother dear,” Sherlock replied, and leant in to kiss the sensitive spot right below Greg’s ear. “I wanted a second round last night,” he breathed. “You owe me sex.”_ _

__Greg tipped his head to the side, giving Sherlock better access, which the younger man exploited to the full, using his teeth and lips to leave Greg desperate for more._ _

__Mycroft suddenly rose from his chair and Greg tracked him with his eyes as he crossed the small lounge to sit on Greg’s other side. “What did Mummy teach you about sharing, Sherlock?” he asked dryly. Greg turned to look at Mycroft and all of the feelings he had been doing his best to repress came roaring back. Something in Mycroft’s expression relaxed and Greg was unable to help kissing the small smile from his lips. The kiss was familiar and new all at once, and, unlike their past encounters, it felt like Mycroft was wholly committed to it._ _

__“Are you two quite finished?” Sherlock snapped several moments later, though there was a distinctly rough quality to his voice. Greg ended the kiss with a huffed laugh and looked at Sherlock, who was pouting adorably._ _

__“Jealousy is unbecoming, brother dear,” Mycroft said, and wound a hand into his Sherlock’s hair, using his grip on it to pull him forward for a brief kiss, and Greg knew it was a sight he would never tire of seeing._ _

__Apparently mollified, Sherlock shifted back so he was sitting properly in his seat again. “So, your answer?” he asked, and Greg could feel the tension running through him where their bodies were touching._ _

__Thoughts raced through Greg’s mind, each one filthier than the last, and he grinned. “Why settle for one Holmes when I can have both?”_ _


End file.
